 Greening
the family farm
a reflective essay by Merrill
Findlay for Habitat
Australia, February 1988
More recent farm stories by Merrill Findlay
Romancing the grindstone on Gunningbland Creek (published 2005) >>
River stories: genealogies of
a threatened river system (2007) >>
Understanding place through narrative (2008) >>
Right: Grandfather
Austie L'Estrange in an oat crop on land he cleared
as a young man near Condobolin, NSW.
Photo by Merrill Findlay, 1988.
Country
town. Interstate bus. They're all there to meet me. It's
spring time and the roadsides are splashed with purple
Patterson's curse and the exotic yellow daisies we call
pee-the-beds. The crops are young and green, just starting
to head, and the trees silhouetted against the setting
sun as we drive home -- well, I'm afraid there aren't
many of them left these days, except along the road reserves.
European agricultural practices haven't been good for
trees in this country. Nor for the land itself.
The
process of deforestation and soil degradation began last
century when whitefellas, ordinary young men and women,
crossed the Blue Mountains from Sydney to take up this
so-called unoccupied land, this 'terra nullius'. Amongst
them were several Anglo-Celtic couples to whom I owe my
roots in rural Australia: I am one of hundreds of great-grandchildren
who are testimony to the pioneering and other activities
of these settlers west of the Great Dividing Range.
My
extended family is proud of our third, fourth and fifth
generation status, but for 'old' families in inland Australia
there are many ghosts. Many things better left unsaid.
Few of my relatives ever talk about the traditional landowners,
the people of the Wiradjuri nation, or what happened
to them after our forebears arrived, for example. And
it's hard to talk about how the land has been and is still
being degraded.
It's
common knowledge that more and more country is becoming
unproductive from salinity and erosion caused by clearing
and over-stocking, but where do you allocate blame? There
are so many pressures on landholders, and many of their
mistakes have been made through ignorance rather than
greed. It is very expensive to solve the problems from
the past, and very hard to change current agricultural
practices to break the century-old pattern of land degradation.
It costs a lot to plant and maintain trees on farms, for
example. And it's hard work.
But
we don't mention much of this on the way home. Instead,
it's all family news and gossip. Which cousin has had
the latest baby, who is about to, how the sheep and cattle
are selling, what price the wool clip might bring, how
much rain we need, what we've each been doing since our
last reunion ... but trees are on the agenda. Because
we have a kind of family plan: somehow we want to pass
our farm on to future generations in a better condition
than when we received it. My generation cannot plead ignorance.
I
speak as if our family has some kind of homogeneous world
(or farm) view and unified sense of purpose. Nothing could
be further from the truth! The parents, very strong individuals
themselves, threw a trio of nonconformists who hardly
see eye-to-eye on anything! One of the few things we all
agree on, though, is that we need more trees on the farm.
But it's very optimistic to believe we'll ever actually
reach accord on where they should go, or when, why or
how, despite our long term objective.
Discussions
and lobbying begin at dinner after the long trip from
town. Mark, brother number one, has some river red gums
he wants to put near the house dam. Father has some tagasaste
he wants to try as a fodder crop. I want to plant a patch
of mixed locally endemic species up near the shearing
shed to recreate something like natural bushland. Brett,
brother number two, he hasn't arrived back from agricultural
college yet, but he's sure to want something different.
And mother, well, she just wants peace and harmony! We
drop the subject until all parties are present, and I
make plans for my regular pilgrimage to visit the grandfather
in Condobolin,
a further thirty miles west.
The
old fellow, the only remaining grandparent, is 92 and
is feeling the weight of his years. He is proud to have
spent all his life in the district his family settled
in the 1870s, and finds it hard to understand why his
more wayward grandchildren should choose to live anywhere
else. My mother and I decide to take him for a drive out
to his old home, the farm another of his daughters, my
aunt, and her family now live on.
 Two
of Austie and Agnes L'Estrange's daughters, Dorothy and
Lois, with cousin Colleen in the garden of the house Austie
built on land his parents acquired in the C19th. All the
timber for this house was cut and milled to size on the
property.
It
was all scrub in those days," Grandfather says as we drive
him along the dirt track between the crops. "We pulled
out most of the trees in this paddock with bullocks. Sixteen
to a team. Some of them were too hard to pull out, so
we'd look for a tree with a good fork in it, cut it down
with an axe, then hook it up to the bullock team and use
it as a lever to push the other trees out. We carried
axes with us to cut the limbs off and we'd pile them against
the trunks to be burned. The stumps had to be burnt out
too. Root carting was another job. We'd cut them four
inches below the surface and throw them on the back of
a wagon. It'd be about twelve months before you could
plough. This is going back fifty or sixty years or so,"
he says, as we stop to open a gate.
"More
than that," my mother interjects quickly. "I'm sixty,
Bost! This paddock was always cleared in my time. I remember
the back paddock being cleared when I was a small child
though, fifty or so years ago," she adds. "Remember the
Phillips worked up there?"
"We
used to ride our bikes up with the billy of milk for them,"
my aunt says.
"That's
right! They had two or three small children and they lived
in a tent in the back paddock. They were ring-barking.
But that was the only paddock I can remember with
much timber on it from when I was a child," Mother says.
She looks at me. "Don't you remember Benny Pack? He was
doing a bit of ring-barking for us when you were small."
I
remember him. A man born on the wrong side of the track
trying to make a living any way he could. And my parents,
younger then, just wanting to improve their land to carry
more stock. In this car, three generations of memories
spanning nearly a century of tree felling. The story of
the deforestation of this country is the story of my family.
It's part of me.
 Austie
with daughters Lois and Dorothy on the farm they grew
up on. Photo by grand-daughter Merrill in 1988.
We
stop for a gate. My aunt attempts to open it and it collapses.
"Every farm has one!" says my mum. We giggle and drive
into lighter kurrajong country.
"I
bet you were grateful for these trees during droughts,"
I comment, as we gaze across a paddock dotted still with
these elegantly shaped trees that have been lopped ever
since my great-grandparents' time to keep sheep and cattle
alive during the dry spells and to protect them during
extreme weather.
'We
were, Merski," my aunt says. "There wasn't anything else
in drought time. Just bare ground."
The
old fellow changes the subject. He doesn't want to dwell
on the hard times. "Those dams had to be put in, and the
fences, the gates swung ..." he says.
"They're
white cypress pine, the fence post, aren't they? And they
seem new."
"Yes,
there's a lot of white cypress out in the back paddock
still," my aunt says. "Actually, I helped sight this end
of the fence and it's crooked! I've never lived it down!"
We women laugh uproariously. Grandfather is not amused.
It wouldn't have happened in his day!
"As
a matter of fact, the timber for the house was cut from
the back of this place. Dad used to tell us how it was
carried out by Jack MacDonald's father's horse and wagon,
because his was the biggest one in the district."
 Austie
with his chocolate-cake-smeared great-granddaughter,
Joanne, in the sheep yards made from cyprus pine from
'down the back paddock'. Photo by Merrill Findlay, 1988.
We're
heading towards the shearing shed now where my uncle and
a couple of cousins are shearing ewes, and the air is
filled with the bleating of young lambs. As we pull
up we're greeted by a tribe of the old man's great-grandchildren,
all about knee-high and smeared with chocolate cake, a
sign that smoko's on. A cuppa amongst the wool bales,
and it's time to get the old fellow back to town.
In
Condobolin I call in at the Government Offices for a yarn
with Conservation Farming Officer, Alan McGufficke,
and District Forester, Andy Heatly. There's a map on the
wall marking the area these two people administer, and
it covers half of New South Wales! The western half. "Where
have landholders gone wrong?" I ask. A bit provocative
perhaps, but these two men should know.
"Well,
over-clearing I think was the main problem," Allan says,
to confirm my own beliefs. " And then there was poor rotation.
The land has probably been over utilised. We tended to
bash the hell out of the country, because our farming
methods in the past haven't been good. And possibly overstocking.
I'm talking about the Condobolin district specifically,
because this is marginal country. Sixteen inches a year.
And there has been a lot of damage done in the past."
"Was
this all ignorance?" I ask. Like, there's a long tradition
of ring-barking so grass would grow. The old timers thought
they were doing the right thing, didn't they? They didn't
know it would ultimately lead to problems like widespread
wind and water erosion and salinity."
"You
can't just accuse people of clearing trees and the end
result is such and such," the forester replies. "It's
a combination of factors. The stocking, the cropping,
what they've done with the country ..."
"I
s'pose they used to get a bit enthusiastic!" Alan says.
"If removing trees was the major way you could increase
your production, then you'd probably go for it! But we
really didn't know very much about trees in the past.
We know precious little at the moment, as far as agricultural
production goes!"
"I
think historically it was the European method of doing
things," the district officer continues. "The idea that
you just flatten everything and away you go. You just
can't do that!" he says. "I'm talking about the bad old
days when people cleared everything. But things have changed.
Possibly not as much as they could do, but I have a lot
of enquiries coming into the office about what trees to
establish and so on. People are becoming aware that their
properties are under-stocked with trees and they want
to do something about it." <
I
leave the office feeling more optimistic. It's dark by
the time we get back to our own plot of ground, near Bogan
Gate. Dad has lamb chops under the griller and Brett
and his friend Sandy have arrived home. We chat and go
to bed.
 Sandy
planting a young eucalypt, one of thousands required to
replace those lost in over a century of land clearance.
Photo by Merrill Findlay 1988.
Next
morning I'm woken early by a widowed peacock screeching
from a fence post, a pubescent rooster learning to crow,
and a grey Arabian stallion kicking up his heels. (The
peace and quiet of country living is an illusion that
only city people suffer from!) At breakfast no one mentions
trees. There seem to be more important issues to consider.
Like the bulls. Apparently yesterday, while mother and
I were in Condo, Mark had rounded up the heifers and locked
them in the cattle yards overnight. This was too much
for the two bulls who have their own paddock some distance
away. Like a couple of randy delinquents they broke through
their gate in the night and were now chatting up the 'schoolgirls',
as Mark's friend Pol and I call the heifers. We all try
to ignore the situation until Mark arrives from his own
place a few miles away to deal with it. Somehow the morning
just seems to slip away.
"If
you want to get those trees planted ..." Mother keeps
warning. Yes Mum.
Dad's
digging in the vegetable garden listening to Brett rave
about some book he is reading, in which the author speculates
about how the cosmos has eleven dimensions, instead of
the four or five we generally take for granted. Mark's
taking the schoolgirls back to their paddock. Pol is in
the kitchen marinating some ducks in brandy, or something.
Everyone is busy. "You're just going to have to organise
those trees yourself," says mother.
I
bring the subject up over the traditional cold meat and
salad lunch (all home grown). With a little gentle persuasion
we reach consensus on a few of the basics. Mark already
has the tube stock from the Forestry Commission nursery
in Forbes, so it looks like we'll be planting his red
gums, although we might throw in a few of father's tagasaste
as well, as a field trial. Mark also wants to try drip
irrigation this time, because he's sick of having to cart
water to thirsty young trees in the droughts, so we'll
have to take that into consideration. Brett and Sandy,
our resident 'authorities' because of their association
with Greening Australia and their tertiary training in
this area, reckon weed control and mulching are pretty
important if you want the trees to survive, and they recommend
tree mats. My view is that, instead of using fancy things
like commercial mats, we should improvise with what's
available on the farm, so I suggest old superphosphate
bags and newspaper instead. The idea seems okay except
that the plastic super bags and paper break down quickly
when exposed to moisture and ultraviolet light. Father
offers some old hay, if someone else carts it, to solve
the UV problem with the super bags. And the rocks left
over from when the Council fixed our access road might
be good to weigh the bags, paper and hay down to stop
them blowing away, although mother says she has always
wanted them for a rockery!
 Brett
rips land near the house dam for the new plantings. Photo
by Merrill Findlay, 1988.
Collecting
the rocks seems like the hardest job, so somehow Pol and
I get nominated for it! We're graciously offered the use
of the old ute for the afternoon. I also get to collect
the super bags, newspaper and hay. Brett is unanimously
allocated the job of ripping the site. The ripping aerates
the soil and makes it considerably easier to dig the holes.
In a text book tree planting operation we would be planting
in autumn and the ripping would have been done at least
six months before, so we suggest that while he has the
tractor going he rip a couple of the areas we'd like to
plant next year, including my spot up near the shearing
shed, and another fenced off area near the hay shed. A
bit of forward planning for next time. By the end of the
day I'm exhausted and, after a roast lamb dinner, go straight
to bed.
At
daylight the same ritual as yesterday morning: peacock,
rooster, stallion. Although the bulls stay put now that
the schoolgirls have been moved to greener pastures. I'm
determined that today we are going to get those red gums
in!
After
breakfast we inspect the site again. It's permanently
fenced off from stock and so, at this time of the year,
is knee high in Patterson's Curse and barley grass. By
the time Brett has finished the tractor work this will
be flattened and easier for us to work on. (The pin-like
barley grass seeds get into your socks and boots and up
your trouser legs, which is exceptionally uncomfortable.)
The permanent fencing is important though, to prevent
stock damage, both at this early stage and in the future,
and to promote self-propagation. The site also has permanent
water with sufficient pressure for Mark's drip irrigation.
 Dorothy,
Sandy (foreground) and Eddie the sheep dog at work greening
the farm. Photo by Merrill Findlay, 1988.
It's
such a visionary thing, planting trees. These fragile
little stems, now bearing just a few greeny-red leaves,
will one day provide shelter and shade and fire wood,
as well as hollows for birds and possums to nest in. They'll
even reduce the evaporation of the water in the dam and
from the surrounding pastures, by slowing down the wind
speed. But not today. Probably not even this century.
And they will only replace a very small fraction of the
trees that have been torn from this property by past owners.
These are the things Brett, Sandy and I think about as
we carefully place each tiny tree in the ground, soak
it, and add the mulch. Brett and Sandy's children and
grandchildren will reap the benefits of our work today,
but what kind of world will they inhabit? Will they ever
see birds nesting in the hollows of what are now fragile
seedlings?
The
dinner bell rings. Our musing ends. The only job left
now is laying the black polythene pipe and inserting the
fittings for the drip irrigation. Mark will do that tomorrow.
This evening we have Pol's marinated ducks to look forward
to.
It's
nice to sit down to a fine home-grown meal after a satisfying
day's work with these people. We know one another well,
so carefully avoid the subjects we'll never agree on (which
are many.) But trees are safe. We all acknowledge the
economic, environmental and aesthetic advantages of planting
them now to replace those lost in past generations, and
those that have died more recently. Together, at this
kitchen table, we discuss double fencing, windbreaks,
tree corridors the length and breadth of the place, growing
our own seedlings, promoting natural regeneration, perhaps
a little agro-forestry ... These ideas will take ten,
twenty years to develop and implement, maybe a life time.
Maybe two lifetimes. Plus a lot of money, and a lot of
work. Tree planting is still both very labour intensive
and very expensive. But one day the view from the house
verandahs might be very different ...
We're
lucky, our family. We are not wealthy -- few families
are in the bush these days -- but unlike many rural people
in the world our basic needs are more than adequately
met, and so we have the time for longer term planning
and for exploring new possibilities. These are luxuries
not everyone enjoys, even in Australia.
 Two
lone eucalypts, all that remained of the original riparian
vegetation by 1971 when this family photo was taken. The
view is now very different thanks to the tree-planting efforts of
my generation, but much more remains to be done to restore
the riparian zone and revegetate the rest of the farm. (The author, Merrill Findlay, is third from the left in the swimming cap!)
But
what if we were in the positions of our great-grandparents?
A few thousand acres of 'virgin' bush in a strange and
alien land. An extra mouth to feed each year or so. (My
grandfather was one of ten children, my grandmother one
of twelve.) Few neighbours, or community services. And
little agricultural knowledge or experience relevant
to local conditions to draw on. What would we be doing
and thinking then? Wouldn't we, in all innocence, be making
similar mistakes to those our forebears made?
And
how might my descendants (if I have children), or my brothers'
descendants view what we are doing today? Will they understand
that the trees we planted were for them too? That they,
more than us, will reap from what we have sown?
Story
first published in Habitat magazine 1988. This content last
revised March 2004, and images added 5 January 2005. Punctuation
and minor typos fixed 28 Jan. 2006. This page was created 21 January 2008.
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